


Bolthole Mixtape: Song 1

by ItsSweaterWeather



Series: Bolthole Mix Tape [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adorkable, Angst, Awkwardness, Beginnings, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inspired by Music, POV Molly Hooper, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-The Final Problem, Series, Sherlock is starting to get the feels, Sherlolly - Freeform, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Taking the long way to Post-TFP, follows BBC episodic canon, part one of series, pre-tfp, simmering feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-05 09:05:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12187038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsSweaterWeather/pseuds/ItsSweaterWeather
Summary: The third rule, “…and this is sacrosanct, Sherlock, so do try to muster a bit of enthusiasm for the lesson: avoid private residences at all costs. You may opt for institutions at off hours, a derelict boat house or perhaps a cemetery. You may even be so bold at to secure spiffy digs behind the clock face of Big Ben for all I care. Good luck with that, by the way. But never,” Mycroft warned, “a private residence. People are so problematic," he paused, letting the syllables fall into Sherlock's lap. "Best to remove all possibility of emotion.”He never liked following the rules...





	Bolthole Mixtape: Song 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Story:** A tango through the tangles that arise from the Sherlolly bolthole arrangement, ASIP thru post-TFP.
> 
> I had the lyrics but not the tune until I met you... This is a jazz riff held loosely in place & inspired by the exquisite series _[So What Was Your Last Girlfriend Like](http://archiveofourown.org/series/719403)_[ by Sunken_Standard](http://archiveofourown.org/series/719403). I claim no rights to that work or its brilliance. If you've not read ALL of [Sunken_Standard's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard) work, I recommend that you eat up every word in the library. Go. NOW!
> 
>  **Trope:** "Just the spare bedroom. Well... _my_ bedroom. We agreed he needs the space." set to music.
> 
>  **Music:** So many songs to consider... While the music herein represents Sherlolly (as I hear them), they're not necessarily tunes either character listens to (unless otherwise specified). They are for the chapter only. They weren't chosen with a nimble ear so as to be played, seamlessly, back-to-back-to-back in real time. I'm no DJ; I'm just someone with a lot of ~~feels~~ words. YouTube links are included. If you're not familiar with a song, give it a listen before you read for maximum effect :)
> 
>  **Sorry:** Not beta'd. 
> 
> **Sorry not sorry:** There is no violin music on this mixtape, nor songs by The Civil Wars, Alanis Morissette, or Coldplay. You should write those fics. I will gladly read and enjoy them. My Johnlock version will lean heavily on The Smiths - obvious, surely ;)

###  [Take Five - composed by Paul Desmond / original recording by Dave Brubeck Quartet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vmDDOFXSgAs)

**Spring 2017**

For all his stubborn drifting in the opposite direction, his ultimate destination couldn’t be avoided. She spun his internal compass with gentle fingers and quiet determination. Eurus punched the coordinates into his brain's GPS a week ago, the moment he'd realized - before anyone else in the room - for whom the coffin was meant, and why repeating those three words could protect that person from harm. And destroy her in the same breath. Regardless, his limbs were eager to make the trek. Again. The dull ache under his skull persisted but the pain didn't matter. Muscle memory controlled his steps now.

Sherlock’s body knew this route by heart.

He headed south to Molly.

No matter which direction he'd told himself to go, he responded to her pull, even when she'd asked him to stay on his side of the river.   

> Hey. SH  
>  _Not yet._  
>  OK. When?  
>  _I don't know._

Those amounted to the only words they'd exchanged since Sherrinford; simple syllables clanging around the complicated distance between them.

Sherlock thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, searching for the raised lip of her key. He'd kneaded that fluorescent pink identifier ring between his fingertips since the day she'd placed it in his palm. A slight tremble in her voice betrayed her as she surrendered the key, her privacy, to him. She'd been right to doubt her decision; he would've questioned her sanity had she not. But her soft hazel eyes beamed with faith, in him of all people, and a fair amount of amusement as his attention slid to the garish colored ring.

> "You'll get it all jumbled otherwise, with your other ones. And the front of this place can get really dark if the trees have all their leaves.”
> 
> He rolled his eyes heavenward. "Three keys hardly a jumble makes, Molly."

He'd replaced that ring each time his repetitive fidgeting broke down the vinyl - with an identical pink one.

Had the opportunity arose, some superheroic shamanism to spin the earth backward, he'd have taken it all back: the lying, the invasion of her personal space, those three words. And none of it; the exclusionary detailing, the hovering. His _I love you._

He'd done so to keep her from harm, so that her claim of ignorance at the full scope of his schemes held up in court, in perpetuity, should something happen to him. 

_The lies we tell ourselves..._

Drugs had addled his brain, and an adherence to the self-perpetuating myth of high-functioning sociopathy his relationships, but he drew the line at inflicting collateral harm on those he cared about.

John Watson notwithstanding…

Mary Watson notwithstanding…

He’d drawn a thicker line around Molly. And crossed it.

Now, he just needed to be near her. Didn't he always? No... no... His insistence on that narrative had weakened over the years. It didn't start out that way. But Sherlock doomed himself the minute he'd broached the subject, marked her as his accomplice the moment she'd accepted his deal.

Not so much a deal; she gained nothing from it. He took all the spoils like a child greedy for her attention.

He'd wanted to tell her for years didn't understand how to put the words together.

_I love you._

Sherlock quickened his pace, sloshing through every puddle, even those outside his natural stride. He detoured around Belgravia and headed west along the darkest of the park's pedestrian paths. His subconscious finally nudged him south at the Royal Geographical Society's imposing Queen Anne, past its hushed low-slung glass and steel visitors center. With any luck, he'd lose himself in Chelsea's schizophrenic mix of red brick flats, white stuccoed squares, and ice lolly-coloured mews.

If he walked hard enough, maybe he'd wear a trench into the ground, a deep hole to prevent him from crossing his side of the river, as she'd asked; the only thing she'd asked of him in six days. 

Sherlock's shoes slapped at the wet pavement until his shin bones rattled and he found himself on the banks of the Thames.

*********

**Summer 2001 and beyond.**

The first rule of bolthole-ing? “Location. Location. Location.” 

Mycroft drilled the word into Sherlock's skull until it beat like a metronome. The younger Holmes stopped picking at an invisible hole in the knee of his slim black jeans and threw his head back, hoping the gesture either shut his brother up or shut him out.

He failed on both counts. Again.

"As I was saying-"

"Guess that rules out the doss house off Abbots Park." Sherlock snapped. The last consonant burst from his lips on an impressive explosion of breath. His petulance sputtered out halfway round the imperious room, however. God, even the furniture in this one conspired to intimidate him.

Mycroft tapped graceful fingers in an unhurried rhythm on his desk. Its combination of warm wood and subdued lines only amplified the overwhelming moodiness of his favorite office. The spotless surface devoid of any electronic gadgetry, even a phone, spoke discreet volumes about why Sherlock sat here, in “la cave”, instead of the clubby dining rooms at Thames House or Mycroft’s humble corner in Vauxhall Cross.

Big brother continued unfazed, his tone an adroit combination of information and censure. "The second rule is to comb every millimeter of the interior— “

"Three times at least. Yes, yes, I understood it the first time you lectured me. And the fifth," Sherlock whined, still addressing the ceiling. He really should stop... "This makes, what, lucky number seven, then? I can't wait for Bob Holness to pop out and tell me what I've won." He didn't expect Mycroft to take the subpar bait but he couldn't help himself. He never could.

"Ant and Dec would be more appropriate, little brother."

_Arsehole._

"As I was saying, ...every millimeter of the interior to maximize the data, minimize the potential for exposure or ambush."

Sherlock's arse went numb a quarter hour into his brother's tips and tricks presentation. With a bit of effort, he fell asleep at the five-minute mark - an improvement from the just-over-seven he'd posted the last time he attended one of these sessions. Between the discomfort suffered at the hands (or backside) of the torture device opposite Mycroft's desk, and the boredom he endured listening to the man, Sherlock cast his bum with the chair After years of practice, his mind made light work of converting Mycroft’s dull lectures into a pleasing white noise, almost making him forget the pins and needles marching up his spine.

The third rule, “…and this is sacrosanct, Sherlock, so do try to muster a bit of enthusiasm for the lesson: avoid private residences at all costs. You may opt for institutions at off hours, a derelict boat house or perhaps a cemetery. You may even be so bold at to secure spiffy digs behind the clock face of Big Ben for all I care. Good luck with that, by the way. But never,” Mycroft warned, “a private residence. People are so problematic," he paused, letting the syllables fall into Sherlock's lap. "Best to remove all possibility of emotion.”

The challenge in Mycroft's examples of suitable boltholes made Sherlock sit upright for the first time all afternoon. He tucked his coltish legs under the chair and unhooked his thumbs from his belt loops. Even with his shirtsleeves rolled down and the cuffs buttoned, he knew his hands would give him up. Sherlock steepled his elegant fingers under his chin anyway. The pale digits were raw, almost blue, from the cold, the nail beds grimy. The sooner he paid penance, the quicker he could return to teasing secrets out of London's nooks and falling into trouble at the bottom of its crannies. No harm in fencing for fun (if not profit) with his big brother beforehand, however. Perhaps this time Sherlock would succeed in picking Mycroft's wallet clean. He didn’t need the money. He just liked sharpening his skills - and poking the bear. 

“Whose emotion?” He paused, savoring the theatrics of the moment.“Theirs or mine?”

Big brother - in every sense of the word - leaned back, his patrician features heightened by the minimalist grace of his Eames desk chair. A large Annigoni portrait hung over Mycroft's shoulder, painted in the artist's signature muted, almost muddy, tones. Leave it to Mycroft to hold court amongst monarchs, and a queen no less. Time oozed in thick silence as elder considered younger Holmes, his hooded gaze, and hawklike nose cautioning Sherlock to terminate this folly or suffer the inevitable.

Sherlock would not yield. Ever.

Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest, mindful not to crease his vest or silk tie, and waited. Or, rather, he let Sherlock wait, his specialty. The two men stared at each other, scanning for any sign of weakness. For all their contradictions and despite the seven-year age gap, the similarities between them had grown more pronounced as Sherlock aged out of his teens. They shared the same pursing of the lips, the same lines between the brows, the same wry smirks contained within the parenthetical creases on either side of their mouths. Even their controlled breathing pulsed around the subterranean office at the same rate. Neither rushed to speak until the other admitted defeat. Mycroft’s steel gray eyes narrowed in that sliver of space between the seconds.

Sherlock caught the sound of his older brother’s lips twitching upward and his insides melted like cheap candle wax. Mycroft saw it, the tiny flicker behind Sherlock’s traitorous blue eyes, the twin storm clouds gathering electricity. Big brother had coached him, repeatedly, on how to shutter those windows, schooled him on the importance of papering over any sign of vulnerability until all signs were erased. At twenty-one, Sherlock still had so much to learn - and today's wisdom would, once again, come at Mycroft's pleasure.

"That decision is entirely up to you, brother mine.”

Humiliation flared, hot and volatile, as Mycroft had intended. Sherlock's neck muscles tightened around a coarse retort. He choked the words down before they betrayed the full measure of his youth. Sherlock broke eye contact first and shrugged. _Deeds,_ not words, he reminded himself. _Yes. Deeds._

It’d take a year and a half of trying before he breached the Clock Tower. The approach proved quite easy; once the initial rush of adrenaline (and funds) wore off, antiterrorism measures at Westminster suffered the same waves of activity and apathy as any other governmental endeavor. A similar argument seemed rather applicable to drug addicts, all things considered…

The voicemail message taunted him when he emerged from the signal-blocking brick and stone confines. “Well-played, Sherlock,” his brother crooned, “In truth, though, even with the attacks in Manhattan, I am disappointed that it took you eighteen months.”

Sherlock grunted. "Seventeen months and three days.”

A quick succession of acquisitions followed over the intervening years. He'd stumbled upon a spot on Parliament Hill and won the flats, such as they were, at 23-24 Leinster Gardens, an uncommon reward for drawing a straight flush against the Clarence House Cannibal. The former would have to be abandoned should that eagle-eyed old woman spot him again; heaven knows what he’d ever need the latter for but the fake facades amused him. In a true emergency, the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery provided serviceable cover, but only if he’d remembered to pocket enough Clozapine to survive an extended residency. Mycroft's orders. Suicidal thoughts didn’t plague him - not on a routine basis - but the weathered markers had conversations amongst themselves, especially on frost-coated mornings, and he found it more difficult to tune out their chatter as he aged.

Who could blame him (besides Mycroft)? Sherlock heard his name on the wind, whispered between the graves. He'd be damned, however, if he let his mind bully him out of a desecrated tomb. Best to pack a light lunch of antipsychotics to hold his demons at bay. Hallucinatory angels always disappointed him; narcotics never did. 

Well, rarely.

He lived within the flimsy boundaries of controlled usage now, prompted by the afternoon he misjudged his tolerance, mainlined an over-correction he’d whipped up to alleviate the ennui of life at university. Even so, Mycroft insisted on continued precautions. By that time, Sherlock had already acquiesced to _the list_ , the mandatory routine of keeping cocktail recipes on his person should his various stages of narcosis render him mute. Or worse.

Most of his attempts to evade Mycroft’s constant surveillance, in a drug den at the scruffy edge of London or a posh flat off Sloane Square, failed with a spectacular flourish clothed in rich fabric. Mycroft sauntered right through the front door as if he owned the place - in many cases, he probably did through a series of shadow accounts and properties confiscated from superbad villains. That bespoke three-piece suit was his armor, the umbrella his Kalashnikov.

Once Mycroft took in the latest shopping list of ingredients, he'd fold his long frame on the ground next to his little brother. What a ludicrous juxtaposition it must’ve been for some cracked up fiend to come upon; both Holmes boys in refined repose amidst the filth and human detritus of, say, an abandoned estate block somewhere in nowhere-Brixton.

Though he forced himself not to, Sherlock recalled more than one occasion when his brother placed a cool hand on his fevered forehead and wiped the slop from his chin with a blindingly white cotton handkerchief. Then he’d wait, Mycroft’s specialty, coaxing him round with reassuring contact to his damp back until his limp but restless body was compliant enough to relocate. Mycroft bore witness to his bouts of manic, violent posturing, countering those with gentle placating. ”I’ll take care of you, brother mine,” matching his tender whisper to the motion of manicured fingers running through Sherlock’s greasy hair. “I’ll clean you up and get you home to Mummy. She worries about you constantly.” Mycroft's hovering in those hours eased Sherlock's anxiety, and supplied both of them with the false belief that the touch prevented his shoddy internal lens from cracking for another month, a year.

A lifetime.

Sherlock never mentioned his doss house escapades, burying the intimacy in a dedicated room of his mind palace. Nor did he thank Mycroft for his repeated interventions. For his part, Mycroft never acknowledged his compassion; only his anger, his inconvenience, his disappointment. Both brothers had come too close to proving that the other's aggressive indifference existed in a vapor finer than a London mist.

"Trust me, Mycroft, I’ve achieved black belt status as a controlled user."

“Sherlock, your mastery in all forms of delusion knows no equal.” Mycroft’s words at the time were caustic but many years would pass before the truth of them burned through the fabric of Sherlock’s life, and revealed the hand his elder brother played in his self-deception. 

 

   
Such a fool he'd been all those years ago; so green and bursting out of his own skin, desperate to best his older brother with bravado and win his admiration.

Since those aimless days of maddening, less than scholarly pursuits, he'd channeled more of his addictive nature into work. And bolthole-collecting. These days, he rarely went in search of a fix (or the supplies to concoct one from the children's chemistry set taking up all the space in the kitchen-ish area of his bedsit). By his twenty-ninth birthday, he'd staked his claim to an embarrassment of bolthole riches north of the river up to Dunstable. His holdings to the south, however, were lacking.

Finding suitable locations was easy enough, but Sherlock wanted something special, an address guaranteed to irk Mycroft - and that meant an occupied residence. He thought of enlisting Anthea. Although devoted to Mycroft (of all people), she didn’t shy away from tweaking her boss's nose on occasion. Her Stoke Newington loft played host to quite a bit of _company_ , however.

Years ago, he'd made the acquaintance of a woman with property in Central London. She remained, to date, his favorite client for her uncommon pluck and impressive list of dubious talents: nefarious bookkeeping, weapons handling, cartel management, and exotic dancing. Her upstairs flat was currently occupied but she did have a basement that might prove serviceable. Alas, her skills placed her as far from the ranks of 'civilian' as one could get and still be a private citizen. She was unlikely to ruffle Mycroft's feathers. He'd keep that one in his pocket for future use; the woman made an excellent cup of tea.

He turned his full attention to the work. Something would turn up, preferably something south and brimming with problematic emotion.

Patience, while not one of his stronger suits, was a virtue.

*********

**Autumn 2010**

Molly took possession of the tiny flat in Clapham with massive potential just when everyone thought she'd given up on the place. It’d taken forever and a day to secure the loan, various bankers wasting her time with all manner of the same sexist questions about her funding and status. Banks in the 21st century, she'd quickly realized, behaved suspiciously like banks in all centuries prior. 

Why couldn't they rely on the facts? She had a plan and she liked ticking things off her list. Thus far, she'd graduated top of her class at Cardiff, moved to London, and did brilliant work as a junior, then senior, house officer. Once she'd achieved full recognition from the registrar, Molly moved into the specialized pathology series and out of her free hospital digs. And, no, Mister (and Mrs!) banker, she didn't identify as half of a dual-income relationship or partner in a shared ownership scheme. She took her portion of a meager inheritance from her gran and saved it. She added to the account with steady determination, scrimping by on packed lunches and bog standard tea for years, relying on goods from pound shops, and turning down more weekends away with friends than she could count.

She favored boot sales and charity shops for all her clothing, too. In truth, that didn't rank as a hardship; that was personal preference. Why spend money on a tight-fitting trendy outfit when the Trinity Hospice Shop in Mayfair stocked some of the best wool cardis she'd ever come across?

Molly allowed her budget only one unscheduled purchase in a three-year period, and that didn't come until after she'd clutched the closing documentation to her chest and sprinted from the estate agent's office with her keys in hand. She'd taken herself on a giddy 'new neighbourhood' expedition the same day when the figure-hugging silhouette of a moderately-priced LBD winked at her from a boutique window. The slim classic had a square neckline and rhinestone straps, both of which favored her clavicle. It screamed _holiday drinks with adults!_ rather than _pub crawls with old uni pals._

She’d yet to wear the slinky number but Molly knew when she did, she’d sparkle. She felt sexy in it - and couldn’t wait to show herself off at a party or on a date. Someday.

Someday could very well arrive sooner than expected if this evening proved any indication.

“Not date, Molly,” she said aloud. “Just, em, one friend entertaining another. Showing off the renovations." _And giving him a key to my flat_ she reminded herself. The excitement of that last bit made her tummy flip.

Regardless of his stated motive for securing her place as a bolthole - which, frankly, sounded alarming even when he wrapped his silky voice around the word, Molly found it impossible not to break into a full-on skip as she headed home from the shops. To her mind, his context may have conveyed practical necessity but a glimmer of subtext electrified the stormy seas of his irises when he'd confirmed their not date. That light shimmed then disappeared too quickly for her to examine further. Maybe tonight…

The September air swirled, crisp and crackly, across her neck. She passed a number of pubs already jammed with Friday night patrons hoping to take a seat next to a patio fireplace or propane torch. The evening begged for thick socks and an oversized sweater. She caught a glimpse of herself in the window of The Mouse and Minnow. That's exactly what she had on. She frowned. "Not date attire."

"But it is _not-date_ attire," she corrected herself. She'd have to pick up her pace if she hoped to make it home with time to change into something more appealing. Sexy?

"No. Not sexy. That's...that's...outside of the new dress, you don't even own anything one could emphatically label sexy, Molly," she huffed. Maybe he wouldn't notice. But, she wanted him to notice. Maybe she’d suggest they take some wine out to her little balcony. The sun would've long set by the time he arrived and if the clouds stayed away, silver light would graze the back of her flat. Something in her quickened at the thought of his thick, dark curls silhouetted against the moon, its rays glinting off his cheekbones. He looked lovely even under the lab's stark cool overheads! No doubt the moon would kiss his features as well.

If she’d remembered sooner, Molly would’ve asked David and James, the couple who owned the split-level below her, as well as the yard, if she could use their gorgeous patio. The wide, low seating nestled among the still-verdant planters felt secluded, romantic. By contrast, her postcard-sized observation deck at the back of the three-storey terraced might as well be a stage at The Barbican.

Molly tamped down her excitement once more. “Not. A. Date,” she whispered. Her excitement refused to be bullied, forcing her mouth into a grin so wide, her cheeks hurt. _That egret-looking fellow_ , as the department chair referred to him, had invaded her thoughts for the better part of a year and finally (finally!), he'd picked up on her repeated invitations for coffee when she'd just about given up! 

Granted, his technique seemed unorthodox but enquiring after her new flat and if she’d mind showing it to him for potential work-related needs did qualify as an opening. Didn’t it? Goodness, he probably had women - and quite a few men - queued around Paddington Station to ask him out. Unlikely that his social calendar remained empty for any length of time

Still, he may not have buried himself in research or a good book with a glass of wine as she did most nights, but his rigid adherence to _the work_ as he often said, hinting at evenings far removed from the company of leggy models or toffs in fine leather chairs. 

The times, too numerous to count, when he'd stayed late in the lab, well after the rest of the staff had said good night, bucked at the stereotypes floating around her head, that of a roving, moneyed playboy or a murderous psychopath (that one offered by the girl in the canteen who made sure the tea caddies were always stocked). As a graduate chemist whose brother held a fair amount of authority in the British government, his access to the department went undisputed by Bart's governance board. He didn't need her to stay behind. Well, yes he did. His analysis bordered on complete rubbish, sometimes, his mind always skipping over the obvious answer in search of something more clever. The first time he'd asked after her opinion on a test result left her positively gobsmacked! After that, a layer of indifference slipped from behind his mercurial eyes. Those blues shone a bit brighter. The greens flickered with cordiality whenever he'd sought out her professional assessment or invited her to have a look at his fluorescent scanner.

Storms still brewed in his grays, though; a warning, a turbulence underscored by that unruly mop of hair and the tightly corded muscles that wrapped around his neck. Still, Molly found herself lingering, offering to assist him on nights when she'd otherwise be early to bed with a library book or her laptop, nights when they numbered the only two people left in the entire department.

His demeanor fluctuated between eerie stillness and cyclonic within seconds, waves of irritation, impatience, and dismissiveness bowling over the lab staff without so much as a storm warning. But when the room emptied and only the hum and whirl of equipment remained, he relaxed, not in some obvious unfurling of limbs or expulsion of breath. Clearly, he felt at ease in his body, the long lines of it, the lean sinew clothed in fine fabric. No, something else settled him, a tranquility she couldn’t pinpoint without direct observation, and she tried her best not to gawk at him, his elegant fingers fiddling with slides, his nimble legs straddling the stool at the far end of the worktop.

Molly got the impression that thinner ice existed in spots, more numerous than he let on. She'd overheard a technician call him a cold fish once but she warmed to his frosty demeanor. Her attraction went against the laws of thermodynamics and the general disapproval of her work friends. What would it be like to find a hairline crack in his floe and slide under that pale skin? How would it feel to drift in those deep blue seas?

She shifted the totes to her other shoulder. "That's a little much, Molly," she scoffed and focused on her mental checklist instead. A nice bottle of red, at least the woman in the shop told her so; “worth the price” she said, punctuating her assessment with a knowing wink. An okay bottle of white because, really, if they were going to sit out in the chilly night air, red just seemed the more worthy candidate on which to spend the extra quid. She'd also picked up several random microbrews from that fancy beer merchant off High Street. Molly liked having a contingency in place for every possible request.

He offered little in the way of clues as to his tastes, for drinks or otherwise. She knew he liked his coffee black with two sugars and that dodgy tea from the canteen so long as it was doused with milk. She’d sniffed his cup, once, after he’d left Bart’s for the night. It had the scent of burnt pencil shavings soaked in whey. It tasted even worse: potato skins steeped in river water. After that, she couldn't stand to watch his plush lips touch that awful hospital brew. She made a point to offer him a cuppa her secret stash, the Yorkshire she kept hidden under the morgue's far worktop, behind the broken autoclave.

Molly's thoughtfulness coaxed a corner of his mouth upward when he bothered to look up from his work. The deep crease in his cheek tugged at a string in her belly.

Damn! Should she get whiskey? Or Scotch? She only sipped those when she could order a good one at a pub, never at home. Of course, now that her kitchen remodel was complete, maybe the time had come to stock a proper “big girl” bar full of aged brown liquors, the latest clear ones…

"Stop, Molly." They were just friends, acquaintances really. Nothing more. No need to get ahead of herself. Themselves. Whatever.

She struggled to pull her phone from her mac’s interior pocket, contorting around one bag weighed down by liquor and the other loaded with a rotisserie chicken, all sorts of cheeses, water crackers, wheat crackers, rice crackers, two different kinds of salads, and a sleeve of biscuits should he not like the fancy biscotti she bought.

Hmm...what if he turned out to be vegetarian? She hadn’t asked, never seen him eat anything, even when she'd encountered him in the canteen. Except for crisps. He liked crisps. She had crisps. Seemed rather odd, though, to offer a vegetarian a plate full of crisps and salads while she ate chicken. If dinner became an issue, she could whip up a gourmet omelette in no time. Or plain one, if that's what he preferred.

Oh no! What if he preferred vegan dishes?

She sucked in a long low breath then blew it out in equal measure. "Relax." She'd entertained a man before. Loads. Well, not loads. But she'd had her share. Well, not had. What difference did it make?

7:16. Barely time to change and second guess every single thing she'd ever said or done in his presence. Oh! she thought, better leave a few wool blankets out on the balcony. It could get nippy up there. She didn’t want to disrupt the first notes of romance having to fetch blankets while in the middle of a deep conversation.

“Just in case,” Molly cautioned herself.

Her heart laughed, uninterested in playing it safe. She'd host Sherlock Holmes in less than an hour! Never mind that he invited himself to her flat. The evening stretched out before her, them, whatever, tipped in brilliant moonlight and ruby red wine.

*********

**Autumn 2010, still**

Early recon proved Sherlock correct in his assessment, of course: Molly’s flat would make an excellent addition to his growing portfolio. Her corner of Clapham lay twenty minutes south, by cab, from Baker Street - in light traffic and excellent weather. Sherlock chose to walk instead. He'd nothing better to do. There hadn't been a case worth his time or his considerable talents since the murderous cabbie. His search for this elusive Moriarty raised more questions than answers these days. Mycroft offered little help. Big brother gave him a couple of leads that went nowhere. MI6's anemic intel seemed rather suspicious but Sherlock’s delight at having to search for the head of a possible crime syndicate on his own outweighed his skepticism. He had no doubt that MI6 knew more than they deigned to share - or, at least Mycroft knew more and he enjoyed holding those cards close to his finely woven vests.

John Watson's presence helped hold some of the interminable boredom of these long days at bay. He'd only just moved the last of his things into Baker Street but already, Sherlock had to admit that having John as a flatmate offset some of the less attractive facets of his...solitude. John didn’t peak his intellectual curiosity but he did provide ample opportunity to observe ordinary human behaviour in a natural habitat, like having a live specimen under glass. And he never forgot the milk.

Still, Sherlock remained borderline restless; a racehorse twitching at the gate, anticipating the crop on his backside. The walk would do him good, expel some of the steam threatening to boil his brain.

Summer had succumbed to autumn’s cooler temperatures. Tonight warranted his Belstaff. Its hefty construction and dense weave modulated his sensory input, regulating how much data bombarded his body. London had all of his heart but the lady delighted in extreme boisterousness, shouting and grabbing at him from all sides. He’d developed the necessary habit of covering himself when exploring her vasculature; tailored suits cut with a precise hand and slim shirts of the softest fabrics, cotton pants that compressed slightly against his hips and thighs. Sometimes he didn’t even bother with those, opting for a bed sheet if the day mocked him, no casework in sight.

Only Baker Street offered safety, allowing him the space to slip off his armor, dissolve into short-sleeved t-shirts and loose pajama bottoms. He loved nothing in his wardrobe more than his dressing gowns, their soft drape floated around his body, wrapping him up in the scents his brain didn't need to pick apart; the sharp, acrid tag of banked embers, Mrs. Hudson's lemon polish, and the underlying damp drifting up from the basement. 

The last hour of daylight shone bright and clear, a perfect night for gathering information and checking in with members of his homeless network scattered along the 4.5-mile route. He regretted only that this evening’s forecast didn't include a further drop in temperature, justifying the need for his leather gloves. As he headed out, Sherlock tucked them into his pocket anyway, an uncharacteristic nod to wishful thinking coupled with his low-grade OCD.

Molly’s flat lay at the T-junction of Larkhall Rise and Killyon Road, a quiet, leafy area so near the Overground tracks, he thought it must be Christmas for all his good fortune of making her acquaintance. The hospital required he have a governess when using the lab or morgue facilities. He suspected Mycroft’s hand in the selection of Miss Hooper. Rarely had he made a contact not vetted or otherwise influenced by big brother. If not his brother, then Bart’s sacrificed her as the unwitting buffer between them and the shadowy sword of Damocles, their one and only attempt at dictating terms before Mycroft’s secret handshake squeezed the fight out of them.

She turned out to be helpful, really, really helpful when she refrained from sputtering her way through needless conversation. He didn’t understand the social contract dictating that two people litter the pleasant void of silence with chatter. The content of Molly’s small talk contained the sort of information ordinary people enjoyed exchanging, offering unsolicited opinions about the weather, asking after his family. Her fluttering made inconsequential noise at best, capped off with nervous smiles that stretched her small mouth out of its bounds.

Molly should’ve irritated him more…

For all her circular questioning and trivial comments, her hazel eyes shone with a rare acumen, just beyond obvious warmth, whenever he caught her looking at him. Her gaze hinted at...

Sherlock rubbed away a nonexistent itch at the center of his chest. Whatever sparked behind Molly Hooper's kaleidoscope irises, the only thing that mattered to him was the work and how he might benefit from her considerable knowledge. He didn’t wish to plumb her doe-eyed depths.

For the most part, she stayed in the compartment he'd assigned her to, floating on the outskirts of his peripheral vision. But she wouldn't dim or fade completely into the blur. She shimmered at his edges, like the residual heat that radiated off brick facades at the end of an uncommonly warm summer day. Just once, when they were alone in the lab, she'd caught him watching her boomerang from the worktop to the drying cupboard and back again. She struggled with her latex gloves. She fidgeted with the loose button at her collar. Her stuttering movements brought to mind the darting busyness of a sparrow. And he couldn’t look away. His mind wandered into uncharted territory, imagining what it would be like to capture her between his palms, cradle that delicate jawbone in his large hands. 

Molly met his eyes at that moment, the mossy green and mahogany flecks lighting up his thoughts before he could pull the shades down on them. She smiled, sincere and devoid of an ulterior motive; a bird flying too close to the sharp-clawed cat. If she only knew how little it would take to pull her down, she’d stop offering to assist him after hours.

“Hmm?” she asked, coming round to his side of the worktop.

Her nonverbal query and her approach sent him reeling. He had a deep distrust of unguarded people, the ones with nothing to hide. He preferred dealing with the secretive, those challenging him to misread their intent. Or the overt, the ones like Sargent Donovan, who wore their disgust with him like costume jewelry.

Molly's soft-shoed gentle presence knocked him off balance. encouraged him to reach for her company.

The bird inviting a cat to share her tree limb.

“I…I didn’t say anything.” He shifted uncomfortably, hooking his legs around the base of the stool.

“Oh. It’s just that…well, never mind.” She shrugged the comment off and returned to her analysis. But a note of curiosity in her tone, not dismissal, piqued his interest and he knew from the shiver in several of his brain’s lobes that she’d already burrowed into his skull. Wise not to scratch that particular itch, to let the night continue as all their previous late nights had: quiet, busy, and pleasantly efficient. All that mattered to him was… the work. Only the work. Always the work.

But he could never leave well enough alone.

After twenty minutes of woeful, unproductive sample processing, he handed her the shovel and silently begged her to keep digging into his brain. "What were you going to say," he ventured, "before?"

"Hmm? Oh...”

That smile again, gravity pulling the corners of her mouth down despite her attempts to stay broad and cheerful. He shouldn't have found that particular quirk of hers appealing.

But he did.

She looked away, embarrassed, the tips of her ears turning pink. He enjoyed that, too. When she turned back to face him, Sherlock sucked in a breath through his nose, his ribs expanding with cool air and her smell, flushed scalp activating the clean scent of her mild Castile shampoo and the richer, more complex notes of perfume. Bergamot and amber. An unusual choice; sultry and warm, almost unisex, far from the flowery sprays he smelled in Bart's more academic offices. The combination of clear, woodsy citrus and mysterious gum resins suited her.

"I...um...it's just that...you were mumbling to yourself. I just thought... that you wanted me." Her words drifted around the lab before she could pull them back in. "I didn't mean  _wanted_ wanted me. I mean...I...that you needed...me. Not me, of course. No. Just...just...because if you wanted anything... I mean...did you need anything?"

He needed to derail this line of thought before his answer and, quite possibly, her response drowned them both in the affirmative.

"No." His tone sprang across the worktop, flat and louder than necessary. She flinched and he felt something in his stomach lurch. Something foreign. Not guilt. No, he’d meant to push her back. He held no blame nor concern for how she internalized his rejoinder.

Two weeks later, he’d overheard her lab colleagues congratulating her on the new flat in Clapham. Two months later, they’d asked after her kitchen renovations.

Two hours after that, once he and Molly watched the last of the staff leave for the night, Sherlock waded into dreaded small talk for all of five seconds before asking her, point blank, if she’d allow him to scope out her place for use as a bolthole.

“What’s a…a bolthole, then?” She asked, setting the bottle and swab down on the worktop, her face wide open and inquisitive.

He stood, hands at his sides, and kept silent for a long moment, judging her resistance by fluctuations in breath and eye movement. Molly appeared calm, accepting. She held his gaze, only one tell giving away any of her anxiety. She made a fist around the elastic holding her ponytail in place then slid her hand down its length. Another self-conscious fidget that he should’ve bulldozed right over.

Sherlock flexed his right hand around a phantom rope. He wanted to feel those silky strands slip through his fingers, wrap his fist around all that hair...tug...

“Mrrrrrmmwesserrr...” Molly’s eyes widened and he realized, too late, that his words had come out in an incoherent babble. Mortified, he turned his back to her and strode to the nearest piece of equipment, a microtome wrapped in a paper bag with the words _Out of order - use the one in room c104!_ scrawled across it in thick red marker. He needed to clear his head, remember his intended goal. “Em. Merriam-Webster defines it as a place of escape or refuge."

“Oh,” she said, her next sentence, spoken in a tone lower than her normal lab voice, caressed the back of his neck. “What do _you_ define bolt-hole as?”

She said the word as if it were two distinct nouns, a tremor of breath holding them together. His body began proposing rebuttals to her unintended challenge.

He always played too freely with his dopamine reward center, hovering too close to dangerous flames. He squashed the thought under the weight of a self-satisfied smirk. The only thing…that mattered to him…was…the work. He knew which words to use, how to draw out the syllables, manipulate her reaction. Molly wore her vulnerability like a badge of honor. Her flaw begged to be exploited. And he’d do it with both arms tied behind his back, for her own good, really. London didn’t play fair with the bleeding hearts, the trusting souls. Better that he take advantage of her than some sinister villain from one of the cheap romance novels she always had shoved in her canvas bag. He’d protect her in a way from her kindness. And he’d get everything he needed.

_Wanted._

Poor poppet. He’d go easy on her. She’d learn and then she’d even thank him.

Hands retired safely to his trouser pockets, Sherlock turned round to the full wattage of her disarming presence - sparkly eyes, frowning smile, creamy clavicle peeking out from under her too big sweater - and he faltered. “Em, the…the same,” he shrugged, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could rearrange them into something less moronic.

“OK.” she nodded, her lab voice back at full throttle. “How does…well, how does Friday night suit?”

She played this game better than him, with a fearlessness that could take down a sociopath with a drug problem. He really should retract, stop this endeavor…

"Excellent," his voice cracked. "Really, really excellent.” _Shut up, you imbecile._ "Shall we say 8 o’clock then?”

 

 

Sherlock checked his watch as he sauntered across the Chelsea Bridge. 7:16. Perfect timing, of course. Warm light twinkled around the bridge’s suspension cables and beams. He didn’t think the city’s need to over-accessorize its bridges with all manner of artificial rays and gelled tubes from dusk until dawn particularly appealing. Tonight, however, he found the effect rather charming. It suited his lady love. No harm in London and him engaging in a little romance to pass the time between here and 59 Larkhall Rise.

He picked up the pace as he neared the end of Killyon Road, his shoes striking the pavement harder as the light from Molly’s flat came into view. Yes. Location. Location. Location. He liked her address.

And he liked the way her ponytail swayed when she walked.

****FIN...for now. [The next tune queues up soon!|****

### Liner notes:

Blame it on the 5/4 beat, uncommon in Western music at the time of its composition, the pleasing piano ostinato, or the controlled violence of the drum solo. Whatever it is, I've always associated this piece with interactions between Mycroft and a younger Sherlock. The elder Holmes is the piano: unwavering, relentless, controlled. The younger, the snare; all gangly limbs and energy, threatening to break free of his older brother's influence - yet wanting desperately to please and impress him. The beat suits them so well - a natural soundtrack for posh sibling rivalry.

As for Sherlolly, _Take Five_ lingers somewhere between waltz and two-step - like so much of their relationship. There's no hug-and-sway on their dance floor yet. He's tightly controlled rhythm but out-of-bounds emotion is simmering below his aloof surface. Molly may orbit around Sherlock at this point, yes, but she's also given herself permission to shine whether he provides the light or not, spinning and floating through her own steps. There's a covert sensuality to her, a saxophone riffing along, impossible not to notice.

And her ponytail sways to Take Five.


End file.
